


This is Taking Chances, This is Almost Touching

by Gemz0rz



Series: Every Path [1]
Category: Marvel, Marvel (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Beginnings, Cellist, Gen, M/M, Mission Fic, Phil Coulson's Cellist, UST
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-24
Updated: 2013-05-31
Packaged: 2017-12-12 20:25:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,888
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/815674
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gemz0rz/pseuds/Gemz0rz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Clint's double alias is just ironic enough to escape suspicion, Phil is bad at remembering to eat, and they're both still young enough to be a little sloppy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_Portland is just another city._  
  
 _At the close of the crazy train that was his first decade with SHIELD, it may as well have been San Antonio, or Tucson, or Cambridge, or any of the other countless places he’d been stationed over the years. It is just another place, just another city that needs loose ends tied._  
  
 _Phil is good at tying loose ends, and so he stays. Twelve weeks in a one-bedroom in the Rose Quarter being fed intel by one Agent Yvonne Arliss, but it will take two before the man ever crosses his path._  
  
* * * * *  
  
It was a routine surveillance post, and certainly not the worst one he’d ever had. Not even close. That was a toss-up between Bogata and that hellhole in Mauritania. No... definitely Mauritania; the loosely-charted jungle of Africa had been particularly bad. But this -- a one bedroom on the outer fringe of Oregon's most populated city -- this, he could get used to.  
  
Except he knows better, because in ten weeks it will be back to New York, likely filling his time with learning the background for a new assignment. That's what he does; he's one of S.H.I.E.L.D.'s finest. So was his partner, until that op in Switzerland had gone horribly awry. Honestly, Portland is probably Fury's idea of a vacation after that, because he knows Phil well enough to know that work will keep his mind where it needs to be. And though it's plush, being stationed here, and though his time in the field is lessening as his clearance rises, he's still the best choice for several jobs. Jobs like this.  
  
Johann Francis Barton, currently using the alias Brandon Fisher, specific age unknown, mid- to late-twenties suspected. Ex-carney, marksman for hire.  
  
...And, apparently, cellist.  
  
"Are we sure it's the same guy, and not some bizarre name coincedence?" Stranger things have happened in the time he's worked for S.H.I.E.L.D.; it's a legitimate question.  
  
"He's been spotted leaving the hall within a half hour of known practice sessions," Agent Yvonne Arliss said, dropping a triad of photos on the desk in front of him. She's eerily competent across the board, and this is no different. Each photo shows the same man in the same sunglasses on different occasions; he's compact, the sort of strength that isn't obvious until you're on the receiving end, and Phil is determined not to let himself be fooled.  
  
"...As well as with the instrument itself." She dropped another set of photos atop the first, these obviously shot by long-range lens in chronological order. The man in question slides his shades on and hefts the unwieldy instrument onto his back, carrying it into the concert hall. As far as they knew -- and they knew pretty far -- none of the other musicians had transported their own instruments, having had them brought over by the staging company with the rest of the equipment.  
  
Phil is nonplussed. Maybe this job will be clean, easier than he'd suspected. So far, Johann hadn't given any indication he was here on business.  
  
That idea flies out the window at the next photo, a grainy enlargement cropped from the previous set: the skeleton curve of what is definitely a recurve peeks out from behind the looming instrument case.  
  
* * * * *  
  
It wasn't hard to find a way behind the scenes of the philharmonic. His cover has a bank account that could buy out the whole orchestra, and the very next day he was introduced to the producers under the pretense of a particularly large donation.  
  
"You'll forgive us if we're curious as to the circumstances surrounding this donation, Mr. Freeman. It's a bit last-minute," the less tactful of the pair prodded in an accent that Phil recognised as faintly Canadian, somewhere near Victoria. They'd spent a half hour in the executive office signing the paperwork and taking care of the minutiae, and now were sat in box seats, each with a snifter of brandy. Coulson pretended to drink; smiling indulgently.  
  
"My late partner was a frequent patron," he explained. "I never attended an event with him, for whatever reason. You know how it is." He gave the pair a softer smile, letting guilt colour his expression. "And now I don't have the chance."  
  
There was a lot to be said about sympathy, not least of which that it stemmed further questions quite effectively. The silence that followed the murmured apologies stretched out until both producers excused themselves, leaving Phil alone on the balcony to watch as the musicians set up. Each was clad in matching black, but it was easy to pick out their mark: even beneath the unstarched dress shirt -- _an amateur mistake_ , he thought, maybe a bit biased -- the biceps that came from bowpulling were hard to miss.  
  
And then there was the fact that Johann moved differently than anyone else, his reactions more subtle, his changes in direction more purposeful. He didn't amble, instead drawing the rosin block down his bow while keeping low eyes turned to the crowd of other musicians. His mark was one of them, then, and he was biding his time.  
  
Coulson watched, the miniature camera implanted in his glasses taking sporadic photos, but couldn't deduce which way the man's gaze was biased; he did a fair job of not letting on who he was scoping out.  
  
The individuals onstage reacted to some cue outside of his line of vision, falling into place like the most well-trained agents he knew, and the music struck up suddenly. It was exceedingly obvious that Johann knew what he was doing. Maybe it was a cover and maybe it was a passion, but the technical skill was there, and for a fleeting second Phil wished he could single out the sound of that particular cello.  
  
Too soon, the piece ended, and as if on cue, the tiny piece of S.H.I.E.L.D.-issue tech buzzed in Phil's ear.  
  
"Got these photos printed and lined up for you, Sir," came the surprisingly high pitch of Yvonne's voice.  
  
"Thank you, Agent." His voice was a murmur, his lips barely moving even though he knew no one could read them at this distance. He took one last hard look at the stage, dumping his untouched brandy into a nearby potted plant, and was surprised when Johann's eyes flashed up to the booth he was sitting in.  
  
Coulson knew better than to give away that he'd seen, making a small show of checking his phone before he turned and left the balcony.  
  
* * * * *  
  
"And you can see here --" Agent Arliss pointed out two separate columns of photos, taken in rapid succession by the camera in Phil's frames, "-- how his gaze lingers again."  
  
"So it's a flutist." Phil wasn't daft, it's just that sometimes he still thought aloud in the sanctuary of S.H.I.E.L.D.'s facilities.  
  
"Flautist," Yvonne corrected automatically.  
  
"Actually, both are correct." His remark was distracted, and to her credit, the junior agent didn't answer as he nudged his glasses up his nose slightly and looked down at a different set of photos. She watched him for a moment, then turned to gather the background checks she'd prepared on the entire woodwind section.  
  
"Have we entertained that it's someone in this section?" he asked mildly, having had a few quiet minutes to map out the number of times the violas had landed in Johann's direct line of sight.  
  
"...No, Sir." It was clear that Yvonne thought the mark held a flute, but she knew her place, and she handed him the background checks before turning to the terminal beside her. The manila files were colour coded yellow and red, and he assumed those flags would make sense when he sat down to have a proper look at them, so he didn't ask.

"I can have the next round to you in about ten minutes."  
  
"Could you manage a coffee, too, please?" His eyes were tired but kind as they caught hers. He hated asking, but he wasn't paid to be lax in his investigation, and he meant to go through each background check with a fine-toothed comb. Including the flutists.  
  
"Of course." Yvonne's smile was real as she single-handedly reloaded the printer with paper. "Have you eaten today?"  
  
Phil opened his mouth to say that yes, he was perfectly capable of basic human functions such as meals -- except that he couldn't remember anything since the bagel he'd had last night. Yvonne shook her head.  
  
"That was in my briefing, just so you know." Phil ducked his head, smiling self-depricatingly, and she looked back to the computer to finish her work. "Go get started, I'll bring you a salad with your coffee."  
  
"You're getting a five-star review, Arliss." He meant it, but that was a topic for much later, when they'd sorted things here in Portland.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Flutist/flautist, potato/potahto. (Except who says potahto, really?)
> 
> Please know that I envisioned Andre and Firmin from Phantom as I wrote out the producers' bit part. And I giggled.
> 
> Likely four chapters. Maybe three. Please hold.


	2. Chapter 2

Phil's eyes were tired when he showed up at the office the next day. Yvonne didn't say anything, but made sure there was a large coffee and a bagel with lox and cream cheese waiting for him.  
  
"You're too good to me," he said mildly as she passed his desk.  
  
"Just doing my job, Sir." And she was. Yvonne was young and she didn't aspire to field work, which meant that her life expectancy wasn't significantly abbreviated. She had time to climb the ranks on the office floor, and she meant to. "Did you find anything in those files?"  
  
Phil sighed.  
  
"Not in so many words, no." He'd been up most of the night poring over the 17 candidates, and he had exactly zip to show for it. "It looks like we're going to have to dig into every member there."  
  
He knew the numbers, knew what kind of time that would take. If it turned out Johann was here on assignment, as recent field intel suggested, then he didn't have 10 weeks. Every day was a race against the clock to beat the hit he knew the man would eventually make, and the only way this mission would be anything other than a failure was if Phil could puzzle things out first.  
  
Luckily, the man didn't seem to be in any sort of hurry, and security detail had confirmed he hadn't left his apartment last night.  
  
 _And apartment and not a hotel_ , Phil thought. That was another good sign, but there was no such thing as too careful when you worked for S.H.I.E.L.D.  
  
Yvonne, bless her, didn't bat an eye, refilling her own coffee as she answered.  
  
"I can have a stack of background checks ready for you in about half an hour, but if you wanted to take another look at the ones I gave you yesterday, it would give me time to glance over the new ones and rank them in order of likelihood." She took a tiny sip, her eyes bright over the rim of the mug. "Might save you some time."  
  
Coulson's smile was genuine.  
  
"That'd be fantastic, but I'm not sure the reports I have are going to tell me much more. I was up half the night with them." Yvonne made a tiny sound like she hadn't noticed, and Phil appreciated her tact. "I think I'll head back to the concert hall, actually."  
  
Benefactors were invited to closed rehearsals, and it had been a professional delight to see that most didn't utilise the priviledge, leaving the grounds mostly free of extraneous civilians. Yvonne nodded, already moving.  
  
"Watson, Wilkins, and Faversham are on mobile backup this morning, I'll have them meet you in Conference C for briefing?"  
  
"Thank you, Agent," he sighed, already reaching into a desk drawer for his second firearm. He strapped it to his ankle, where it was hidden by the clean line of his slacks, and gathered his things to make his way to the conference room.  
  
* * * * *  
  
With one agent stationed outside the facility and the other two covering him from strategic locations inside, Phil ventured inside, once again playing the part of Roger Freeman, mourning millionnaire. He knew from Watson's sitrep over the comms that the musicians were milling about onstage, and it was almost too easy to wander into the green room under the guise of being lost.  
  
The place was the picture of a communal space: jackets tossed over the two couches that lined the walls, fast food bags peeking from the waste bin. It was all so normal... and Phil knew he wouldn't find what he was looking for there.  
  
Continuing on, doing his best to look lost and ambling for the few security cameras that existed, he let himself into the men's dressing room. It was dark and silent; there was no need to use it for rehearsals. Which made it all the more suspect that there was a combination lock on one of the metal lockers that lined the wall.  
  
 _A combination lock_. Phil was almost insulted.  
  
In a matter of minutes, it hung free. Inside the locker was a recurve bow, slim, the paint shabby but the string new. A purple silencer was the only ornamentation.  
  
"Lost visual on target," came Watson's voice over the comms, and Phil quickly smoothed a fingerprint capture tape down the grip of the bow, lifting it away smoothly and pressing it to a protective plastic cover. He already knew who it belonged to, but there was no such thing as too thorough.  
  
"Copy," he replied quietly, stowing the prints in a pocket and closing the metal door with as little noise as possible. The lock clicked in his palm, and he gave the dial a twirl before hurriedly wiping his prints away.  
  
He had just enough time to slip out of the dressing room, turning his back to the door and pulling his phone out of his pocket to frown over a text message, before Johann came down the few steps to his right, almost freezing when he laid eyes on Phil. The agent didn't tense -- he'd been trained better than that -- but his gun was holstered beneath his jacket for a reason.  
  
The archer broke the silence first.

"Didn't realise anyone would be down here." Phil didn't have to entirely fake his surprise; the man's voice held a midwest twang he hadn't been anticipating.  
  
"Sorry, I think I'm a bit lost. I tried following the directions I was given..." He shrugged sheepishly at the screen of his cell phone before clicking it shut and stowing it away, offering his hand to shake. "I'm Roger. I was looking for the producer's office?"  
  
Johann stared for a tense moment, and Phil noticed the subtle lines in his forehead and around his mouth. He looked older than what S.H.I.E.L.D. files pegged him as -- but then, a hard life could do that to a man.  
  
Eventually, the marksman shifted his weight just slightly, grasping Phil's hand in his in a quick shake.  
  
"Brandon. I'm with the cellos." He waved a vague hand in the direction of the stage, but his eyes darted to the dressing room door for a fraction of a second, as if to check and see if anything was amiss.  
  
"Yeah? The cello was always my partner's favourite." Johann gave Phil a sharp look at that, and the agent rushed to clarify, hoping to derail the man's sense of distrust with a soft, wistful tone. "My partner, Thom. Car accident last January. It would've been a decade for us this year."  
  
The hitman gave a soft sigh of relief that Phil hadn't meant "partner" in the professional sense, and shook his head once, the set of his shoulder relaxing.  
  
"I'm really sorry to hear that, man."  
  
Coulson had to stop his brow from wrinkling. Those words weren't a lie; he actually meant them. Obviously, Barton had known loss -- S.H.I.E.L.D. had an extensive file on him, and the agent had read every last word -- but this was real sympathy, and Phil swallowed. Switzerland was still fresh in his mind, fresh enough to let him blame himself, and as much as he hated that Thom's last mission was as a ghost, he couldn't deny that he'd struck a chord with the archer.  
  
"Thank you, Brandon." Phil's smile was thin and surpressed. "Means a lot."  
  
Johann swallowed, glancing again at the door to the dressing room, suspicion creeping back into his expression.  
  
"Look, I know this is awkward -- I mean, I just met you -- but we're done with rehearsal for the day, and I was just about to head to the bar across the street, if you'd like to join me?"  
  
Phil wasn't exactly surprised. The man was suspicious now, and wanted to chance to assess him as a potential threat in the off chance that he found his bow disturbed. The bar he was referring to had been flagged as a likely retreat during recon, and it was gratifying to know he'd been right about it. The place was quiet, but had a definite stream of clientele, and he figured that he'd be safe enough. Even if Barton decided he was a threat, he had backup.  
  
"...Yeah, alright." Phil tried to give the impression of scoping him out respectfully. He was supposed to be in mourning, sure, but he wasn't dead. And, mark or not, the man was something to look at -- even if he shouldn't have been looking. It was easy to feign the right balance of interest and guilt.  
  
"I've just got to find the producer's office first." He smiled apologetically. "Something about proofing my name in the program..."  
  
Johann smiled, just briefly, but it didn't reach his eyes.  
  
"Up the steps, take a left -- it's labelled about halfway down that hall."  
  
"Thank you," Phil said fervently, straightening his jacket with a tug. "I can meet you in 15?"  
  
"I'll be there," Barton confirmed with a curt nod.  
  
Phil smiled, and if he looked a little unsure of himself, it wasn't completely an act. It helped keep his cover well enough, though, and he wasted no time ducking in the direction the man had pointed him.  
  
"All units, change of plans," he spoke softly into the comm as soon as he'd made it down the next hall. "Converge on the bar across the street, Mike's Place. Watson, I want you inside ASAP. Wilson, you'll follow a few minutes behind me. Faversham, I want you covering the back way out."  
  
There were three clear agreements, and then radio silence.  
  
Meanwhile, Phil stepped into the producers' office, Roger Freeman's mask firmly in place.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Clint and I have the same silencer, if you were wondering. (You weren't.)


	3. Chapter 3

Clint checked his bow methodically:  grip, then string, then tension. Nothing looked out of place, not even the slant of it against the back of the locker, but even that wasn't a guarantee; he knew he wasn't dealing with amateurs.

Heaving a sigh, he ran a hand through his hair. He'd cut it before taking this job, and he didn't like the clean-cut profile, the way it feathered against his palm instead of giving him something to tug on when he needed to clear his head. But Brandon was a musician, not an carney-turned-hitman, and the haircut helped the cover.

He shut the locker with a frown, shrugging on the leather motorocycle jacket that was his one concession in this identity, the only piece of him -- besides the bow -- that he could legitimise.

...Not to mention it was too damned comfortable to give up.

The bar wasn't exactly quiet, full of the clink of glassware and the grumble of voices that had been smoking for 30 years too long, but it wasn't raccous, and the only music that wafted through the place was a low strain of The Eagles from a corner jukebox. It'd been the same album every time he'd come in, he figured it was stuck.

Clint ordered  a shot of tequila and a beer, shooting and then chasing with the pale wheat ale. He wasn't picky -- beer was beer -- but even he could tell this was some hippie ass local blend.

 _Never thought I'd miss Germany_ , he thought, kicking his too-shiny shoes up onto the bench across from him as he waited.

* * * * *

Coulson was nothing short of professional as he stopped by the producers' office, checking over the donor's section with his usual precision. It wasn't much, but he'd had them print his late partner's favourite surname alias below his: Thom Pritchard. After Switzerland, he felt like he could do this one thing, make this one gesture.

His gratitude was real as he took the pre-printed copy of the programme, folding it once and tucking it into his pocket.

But as soon as the door closed behind him, he was back in work mode, trying to puzzle out what Barton's first move would be. A quick stop by the men's room let him double-check the clips in his guns, and he made sure the place was clear before signalling to his backup detail that he was headed in.

 _God, I wish I could drink on the job_ , he thought wistfully. Thom's ghost was a lot to deal with, and all the casual mentions of his name that Phil had endured so far had only served to dig up memories of their past missions together.

_Thom would drink. I miss Germany._

* * * * *

Clint was waiting without looking like he was waiting, and when Phil stepped into the bar, the way he withdrew his legs from the bench looked like the most natural thing in the world. He attracted the bartender with a short nod, then turned his attention to Phil.

"What's your drink? I know it's not brandy." His smile was slow and easy; he knew he wasn't wrong. His eyesight was the best thing he had.

He was rewarded with the sort of pause that would have constituted a sputter in anyone else, but even the agent couldn't hide his surprise.

"You were watching." It wasn't a question.

"Sure was," Clint admitted, his professional confession hidden behind a tone that bordered on flirting. If he had to be honest -- which wasn't what he was being paid for -- the suit was kind of working for him.

"Good eyes," Coulson commented offhandedly. Barton's file detailed the subject of his eyesight, and it was estimated to be somewhere around 20/8, which was where he'd gotten his codename.

"I get that a lot," the archer drawled with a lazy shrug of one shoulder, and he eyed the bartender who came close to the table. "You didn't answer. What can I get you?"

Phil shifted minutely, curving a few lower vertebrae to give the appearance of relaxation against the booth back.

"A gin and tonic, please. Except let's sub the gin for a lemon wedge." He dipped two fingers into a pocket and handed the man a neatly folded ten. The bartender looked confused for a moment, then strode away, apparently above commenting but not about charging full price for a lemon soda water. Clint watched as it was delivered, and Phil waited to sip until he had Watson's confirmation in his ear that nothing had been slipped into it.

"...You really drink gin?" The blonde's disbelief was amusing, and Coulson's lips twitched. It wasn't the question he'd been expecting.

"On occasion, yes." Clint shuddered, tipping back his beer and signalling for another.

"That shit tastes like bottled Christmas trees," he pointed out. "Uh... no offense."

Phil actually smiled at that, a brief but delighted expression crossing his face.

"None taken."

There was a short silence, and they watched each other carefully. There was obviously a sort of tension between them, an almost tangible crackle as they sized each other up.

"So, cellists --"  
"How would you --"

Phil made an expression that might've been a wince, and Clint smiled over the rim of his bottle.

"Please, Mr. Freeman. You were saying...?" He fought the urge to nudge the man's foot beneath the table. He knew enough to know that sex wouldn't work in this case, and the urge was too close to what he actually wanted aside from the hit.

"Okay." Coulson's expression locked down tight as he surveyed the marksman over his tumbler as he took a sip. Clint swallowed, blue eyes meeting grey in the dim light of the bar.

"How would you like to come work for us?"

Clint grinned, tucking the neck of his bottle between his fingers and taking another swig. This job had just gotten more interesting.

"You in the market for a cellist, Mr. Freeman...?" Maybe sex appeal was the way to go. For once, he couldn't tell; this had to be the weirdest mark yet.

"For an archer." Phil's expression didn't change, but his tumbler rested on the table now, one hand on either side of it, palms flat against the table as Clint froze. There was another silence, much longer this time, and Clint hated himself for how much of his surprise had been written across his face.

"We have a range, of course, and R&D would love the chance to outfit you with something custom." He pointedly didn't mention that he'd seen the near-Paleolithic kit stored in the locker. "You'd have to pass clearance, of course, but there's a 401K, and --"

"The Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement, and Logistics Division offers a 401K?" It was a safer topic than the thought of a custom bow. He was only a man; he had wants. For his part, Coulson doesn't even blink at the intel Clint's been supplied with.

"You can call us S.H.I.E.L.D. Saves time," he explained blandly. "Is that a yes?" The archer was silent, and Phil took a slow, deliberate drink, still keeping his hands above the table. "Alternately, you could tell us who you've been paid to take a hit on. Seeing as you haven't taken it, we can't bring you in. No harm, no foul. This time." His words were measured and sure.

Clint tipped his bottle back, but the tension in his fingers around the slender neck of the bottle gave him away.

"Normally, the idea is not to tell a mark that they're a mark. But I'll make an exception in your case." His jaw tightened minutely. "If I come with you, what then? I've got a record, let me tell you."

It wasn't a boast; his record was long and sordid. The official one was most petty offenses, but only because he was too good to get caught. He suspected S.H.I.E.L.D. would know about the rest of it, though. The killing for money bit. And he suspected it would go over about as well as it did when he couldn't sleep and was forced to think about it in the small hours of the morning.

"Amnesty, Barton," Phil answered, not batting a single eyelash at the knowledge that he'd been the mark all along. In his line of work, it was almost a compliment. He was only Level 6 clearance, but someone had thought he was important enough to take out. "We're offering a clean slate."

Clint snorted, partly to disguise his discomfort at hearing his own name.

"Hate to say it, _Phillip_ \--" The archer ground his teeth for the space of a second. "-- but I've heard that one before. There's no one in this world can wipe my slate clean."

In that moment, his eyes were ever so much older than his body. The tension in his face underscored the lines that had been left there over the years, and Phil had to tamp down a rising affection for the man. He'd seen the footage, knew what kind of asset he could be, and with that one look, he now knew the man wanted it.

Clint thought for a long moment about how good it would be to actually leave his past in the past. It was like offering a child a lolly, only the candy was imaginary. There may be amnesty waiting on paper, wanting nothing more than his signature -- but that's all it would be. Paper.

Clinton Francis Barton knew the truth. There was no amnesty for him.

"Answer's no," he said, stretching to a rise, leaving the beer on the table. "Don't suppose you've got a card, though? In case I change my mind?"

It was a dark tease. Clint would never be one of the good guys, and the man in front of him was still a mark. If not today in Seattle, then next week in Acapulco, or next month in D.C. The money was damn good, and what was one more black spot on his record?

"I don't," Phil answered tersely, and on a whim pulled one of the advance programmes from his pocket, tearing off the largely blank back page and scribbling a number across it. It was a disposable line, but he'd keep it until he couldn't anymore, and it was the best he had to give.

"What's this?" Clint frowns down at the highlighted name, the one Phil had proofed half an hour before.

"I told you, my partner --"

"No. No cover bullshit." Clint dropped his voice to a fierce whisper as he interjected, eyes still locked on the highlighted name, his lips thin with tension. "I showed you mine, you show me yours. Who was he? Did you love him??" The last question was more heated than the rest, tempered with an air of disbelief, and it took an effort not to react.

Because while not many things could flap Agent Phil Coulson, Thom was a weak spot of his. He knew from their conversation earlier that Barton harboured a confusing sort of sympathy on the subject, so it was just as convenient not to lie.

"Are you asking if I'm actually gay?" Clint was silent, and Phil's nostril's flared. "He was my professional partner, is all." He swallowed, meeting Clint's eyes even though they were still downcast, staring at the programme. "...But yes. Yes, I did. He was a good man."

Phil hated that the subject of Thom was so important to Clint. He'd come here to do his job, and do it well, and get away from the ghosts of Switzerland, but the archer was still staring at the highlighted name like it meant something to him. Weighing his options, Coulson knew that further questions could wait. This acquisition was too important.

"...You could be a good man, too, Johann."

The marksman huffed a mirthless laugh, and his expression was tortured when he lifted his eyes to Phil's, his answer barely audible.

"Alright."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kindly forgive the weird POV switching. (Or, y'know, don't. Nobody's forcing you to read my drivel.)
> 
> The fourth chapter will likely be very short. An epilogue of sorts. I have written snippets of continuing storylines though, and there will be at least one more piece to accompany this one.


	4. Chapter 4

"Director Fury on the line for you, Sir." Yvonne's voice was crisp over the Bluetooth, and Phil nodded unconsciously.  
  
"Put him on, please."  
  
"There will be dinner to-go waiting for you both," she replied cryptically. "Pulled pork." And then a click signalled that the connection had been made.  
  
"Agent Coulson," Fury said, not waiting for any token answer. "There is a plane waiting for you and Mr. Barton and a car waiting at the office to take you to the plane. I suggest you hurry; I'll be debriefing you myself and I don't want to be here forever."  
  
He -- as most of the agents did -- just assumed that the Director lived at HQ. But to be debriefed _personally_... Usually, Fury didn't interfere with a case until it was closed; this was either a very good sign or a very bad sign. Either way, it was probably best not to let on what a Big Deal it was to the archer in the back seat. What came out instead was:

"Sir, I'm not sure that's the best course of action."

"Excuse me?" Phil couldn't tell if the Director was incredulous or just surprised, but he barrelled on.

"Sir, it seems like it might be prudent to wait a week, let me brief Barton on what it is we do, and see if we can't gather a bit of intel on the person or persons who hold his current contract."

Fury made a noise that might have been a hum.

"And you don't think our man will run? He's no amateur, Agent."  
  
Coulson glanced in the rearview mirror, finding the archer's eyes for the briefest of seconds. He wasn't one to make important calls on gut feeling alone, but the way the man's face had gone pale when he'd seen the preview programme suggested there was more to the story than he'd been able to find out yet.

"He's not going anywhere."

"I see." There was a moment that stretched on just a hair too long where neither said anything, and the Director was the first to break the silence.

"Be on that plane a week from today, this is the only extension you're getting."

"I understand, Sir. Thank you."

The line went dead, and if Phil hadn't been driving, he would have been a little more dazed. But the broken yellow lines on the asphault kept his attention, and soon they were parked in front of the mobile office.  
  
"...You like pork sandwiches?"  
  
* * * * *  
  
 _Phil meticulously pens in his information as it is relayed, pausing for a fraction of a second at his birth date._  
  
 _Sagittarius, he thinks to himself. He doesn't believe in those things, not by a long shot, but it still feels like he's been let in on a secret, and his pen stills above the report._  
  
 _"Don't suppose you'd tell me... why the cello? It's not important officially," he assures the man quickly. Clint smiles, but there's no pride in it. Dexterity comes easy to him._  
  
 _"I'm good with any bow," is his succint explanation. Coulson takes that in for a moment before pressing onward._  
  
 _"Johann, we --"_  
  
 _"While we're on the topic, boss, you can't seriously tell me you think my parents named me 'Johann'." Clint's grin belies his obvious amusement, and Coulson looks slightly mollified. It's more of a reaction than he usually shows to anything._  
  
 _"I'm not your boss," he says carefully. Clint shrugs, and Phil knows that at this point, it honestly makes no difference to him. "We've been tracking you for some time. The was always the name under the alias, you'll forgive us for assuming..."_  
  
 _"Yeah, well. You know what they say about assuming."_  
  
 _Before Phil can narrow his eyes at him, Clint has the man's pen between his fingers, striking out 'Johann' and in its place writing 'Clint' in heavy letters that are decidedly less than uniform. Phil doesn't move, doesn't so much as dip his eyes, but his peripheral vision is very good. He can read what's been written._  
  
 _"And you didn't think to tell me this a week ago because...?"_  
  
 _"Had to make sure you weren't gonna leave."_  
  
 _The bald honesty of the statement punches the breath from Phil's lungs, and one hand smoothes down his tie. The movement is a tell, a giveaway, and he barely finds it in him to care. The truth is that S.H.I.E.L.D. hasn't spent considerable time and resources tracking him down just to abandon him, and that's probably what he should say, but what comes out is:_  
  
 _"I'm not going anywhere, Clint."_  
  
 _The archer doesn't have to say he doesn't believe him, it's obvious in the way they spend the rest of the flight in silence._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Definitely another longer, more in-depth series coming. This leaves a lot of questions unanswered, and I plan to delve into them.
> 
> Also, any chance to write Natasha. ;)
> 
> Thanks for reading, x


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